Dear Debbie, page 5
“I wanted to squeeze in a quick workout before the book club,” I say. “You’re still coming, right?”
I’m still feeling out the book club etiquette. I wasn’t sure if I should invite Harley, because it would be mixing universes. But I also desperately need reinforcements during these book club meetings. One of my favorite things is discussing complex books with other adults, but I’ve come to realize I’m not very fond of any of the women at my book club. When Harley mentioned she had already read the book, Velvet Moon, I decided to risk the invitation.
“Of course I am,” Harley says. “Are you sure I can’t bring anything? You said it was potluck.”
“No, it’s fine.” I wave a hand. “We always have much too much food. Rochelle puts out a massive spread. Don’t worry about it.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Are you sure?”
I don’t know why she’s so anxious. Why would someone as cool and self-assured as Harley be worried about what a bunch of middle-aged book club attendees think of her? But I suppose everyone has their insecurities.
“Definitely,” I say. “Now, remind me. You said you have an allergy to…”
“Avocados,” she says. “It’s not lethal or anything, but I break out in a rash from even a bite. I know it’s everyone’s favorite healthy fat, so it’s a bummer for me.”
“No avocados,” I say. “Got it.”
Harley tugs at the Lycra of her workout pants. Even if I spent every moment in this gym between now and eternity, I wouldn’t have a body like hers—not after two pregnancies and fifteen extra years of living. Working out won’t get rid of stretch marks or the parts of my body that used to be firm but now sag.
I remind myself that I earned every single imperfection in my body, and I have no regrets. I sure wouldn’t give up Lexi and Izzy to have a tighter tummy and perkier boobs. And my husband doesn’t seem to have any complaints.
Harley grins at me, oblivious to the way I’m ogling her thighs. “I’m really looking forward to this. I’ve never been in a book club before.”
“Oh, it’s really fun.”
Except that’s a lie. I’m sure there are book clubs out there that are actually enjoyable, but the one I have been attending in my neighborhood is not the slightest bit fun. But if I say that to Harley, she might decide not to come.
“So I’ll see you at 12:30?” I say. “Meet at my house?”
She winks at me. “I’ll see you there.”
After Harley walks away, I climb up on the elliptical for a workout. It might not be a bottle of pinot grigio, but it will help me forget my problems for a little while.
11
COOPER
Some people are friends with their bosses. Some people have dinner with their bosses or head to the golf course together. Maybe they share a couple of drinks at the local bar after a long workday.
My boss prefers that I speak to him as little as humanly possible.
No, Ken Bryant is not a warm and fuzzy boss. He doesn’t want to know how my weekend went come Monday. He doesn’t give a shit if I went to the beach over the summer with my family. He doesn’t want to chitchat. He just wants me to get my damn work done on time, which I’m usually excellent at doing.
Ken wasn’t thrilled when I requested a meeting with him earlier in the week. When he asked me what it was about and I said, “my future at the company,” he looked even less thrilled.
Right now, I am psyching myself up for the meeting in my shoebox of an office. In about five minutes, I will explain to Ken why he should—nay, must—make me a partner at the firm. I can’t anticipate it going well. But I have to try. When I get home, Debbie is going to ask me how it went, and I can’t just tell her I chickened out, can I?
She deserves better than me. For more reasons than she even knows.
“Coop? You okay?”
I look up at the sound of the voice at my door. Jesse joined the firm about a year ago, and now I finally have a colleague that I want to spend time with outside work. He and I have had dinner together, I’ve met his wife, and he’s met Debbie. He even convinced me to join a local gym, and I no longer get out of breath when I climb the steps from the first to second floor of my house.
“Fine,” I say quickly. “I’m just… I’m going to have that talk with Ken now, and…”
I confided in Jesse about the meeting, and he agreed with Debbie that I deserve a piece of the firm. He didn’t seem to think it was as big a pie in the sky as I did. I have been here for ten years after all.
If my boss were anyone else but Ken, I’d agree with him. But every time I envision this conversation, I can’t see how it will go my way.
“Don’t worry.” Jesse winks at me. “By this time tomorrow, you’re going to be my boss.”
“Maybe…” I rub my fingertips against my temples. I’ve never had a migraine before, but I feel one coming on. “If it were anyone besides Ken…”
Jesse leans against the doorframe of my office. He can’t come inside, because there quite literally is no room. The office is big enough for my desk and the chair that I sit in, but nobody else can comfortably fit inside. Even if Ken miraculously agrees to the partnership, I won’t get a bigger office.
“Look,” Jesse says, “you’re a damn good accountant, Cooper. Ken would be screwed if you left, and he knows it. You’re in a really good position. Give yourself some credit, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Also…” Jesse squints at me across the room. “What’s going on with your tie? It usually looks so perfect, but today it looks like you had one of your kids knot it for you.”
I fiddle with my tie, which I had to retie when I got here. I didn’t realize it at the time, but Debbie tied it crooked this morning. She’s never done that before. I guess she had a lot on her mind with that photo shoot and all. But it doesn’t look like I did a much better job.
“Debbie usually does it,” I explain as I attempt to repair the damage. “Is it really that bad?”
“Nah, it’s fine.” He looks down at his watch. “Just get in there and make sure you don’t come out until he gives you what you deserve.”
What I deserve? I already have more than I deserve. When I was in college, my whole life was going down the toilet, but I somehow turned it around, and then I met Debbie. Jesse has met Debbie a handful of times, but he barely knows her, and he doesn’t realize she’s way too good for me. He doesn’t know I’ve done a lot of things in our marriage that have proven that she deserves better. I only want this promotion so I can live up to that impossible standard. I need this—for her.
Shit, now I’m freaking out even more.
Ken is the only one of us who has a secretary. Her name is Mrs. McCauley, and we’re not allowed to call her anything but Mrs. McCauley. Mrs. McCauley has been with Ken as long as I’ve been working here and possibly since the beginning of time. Despite the fact that I’m certain Mrs. McCauley knows that I have an appointment now, and she most certainly knows my name since I’ve worked with her for ten years, she gives me a blank expression when I approach the desk she occupies right outside Ken’s office.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
“I have an appointment with Ken,” I say through my teeth. She’s not making this easier, which I suppose is the point.
Mrs. McCauley peers up at me through her horn-rimmed glasses that hang from a beaded chain that encircles her neck. “Is he expecting you?”
“Yes. That’s why it’s an appointment.”
I swear, I’m not usually a smart-ass, but something in Mrs. McCauley brings it out in me.
“Let me check with him.” Mrs. McCauley picks up the phone at her desk, even though she is within shouting distance of her boss. Hell, he’s probably listening to this entire conversation. But she goes through the motion of dialing his extension. “Hello? Mr. Bryant? This is Mrs. McCauley.” She pauses, waiting for his response. “Yes, I have Mr. Mullen here to see you.”
I stand there, waiting for Ken to allow me to enter his office.
After what feels like an interminable pause, Mrs. McCauley nods. She smiles up at me. “You can go inside, Mr. Mullen.”
Even though I have been given permission to enter, Mrs. McCauley jumps up to get ahead of me, and she knocks on the door one final time, waiting for Ken to grant us permission before she opens the door for me. Ken is sitting behind his desk, a stack of papers in front of him, in roughly the same exact position he was in the last time I was in his office several months ago.
I only wear a tie on occasions when I know I’ll be interacting with Ken, but he always wears one, in addition to a suit jacket. I’d always thought that if I started losing my hair, I’d shave my head like a lot of men my age do, but Ken has been balding the whole time I’ve known him, and he has not gone that route. The entire top of his head is shiny and free of hair, but there are still remnants of his gray hair along the crown of his head. It makes him look far older than his fiftysomething years.
“Mullen,” he says. “What’s this about?”
His office isn’t huge, but it’s at least big enough for a couple of chairs in front of his desk. However, he doesn’t offer me the opportunity to sit, and I don’t take it. This will be easier standing anyway.
“Ken,” I begin, wiping the sweat from my palms onto the legs of my pants. They are damp enough to leave a stain. “I’ve been working here for ten years now. Almost eleven. And…I’ve been thinking a lot about my future at this firm.”
Ken narrows his eyes as he folds his arms across his suit jacket. He leans back in his chair, an unreadable expression on his face. “Is that so?”
Remember, you are a valuable part of this company. He won’t want to lose you.
“I like working here,” I say, plowing forward, my voice wobbling, “but when I first started here, you mentioned the possibility of partnership sometime in the future.”
Ken’s expression gives nothing away. “That was a long time ago.”
“Maybe,” I say, “but if anything, the company is bigger than it was back then. I’ve been a loyal member of the firm, and I could be an asset to you as a partner.” After a pause, I add, “Sir.”
Ken rubs his chin. “No,” he says. “I don’t see it.”
What? It feels like the wind was suddenly knocked out of me.
“Ex…excuse me?” I stammer.
“You do well enough as a worker bee,” he says thoughtfully. “But a leader? No, definitely not. Certainly not a partner.”
Until this moment, I hadn’t realized how much I wanted this partnership. I deserve this partnership. I’ve worked my ass off for this firm, and I don’t deserve to be treated as a worker drone. Plus, I can’t imagine going home to Debbie and telling her about this conversation. If Debbie were here, she would tell me that I deserve this promotion, and I should demand it.
“Listen,” I say with courage I didn’t know I possessed, “if you can’t consider me for a partnership, then maybe I should look for opportunities elsewhere.”
Ken snorts. “You think you’ll find a better job than this?”
“I’d rather not,” I hedge. “But if you’re telling me there’s no opportunity for advancement here, then…well, you can consider this my two weeks’ notice.”
Ken’s eyebrows shoot up. My legs have turned to liquid, but I keep my chin high in the air. Ken needs me, and he knows it. There’s no way he’s going to call me on my bluff.
“If that’s how you feel,” he says, “then I accept your resignation.”
It feels like the world has just dropped out from under me. I had imagined this conversation going a lot of different ways, but I never imagined it ending with my resignation. I can’t believe he’s willing to just let me walk out the door. I’m one of his busiest accountants—I have more clients than anyone else. And I never make mistakes. This place would fall apart without me.
“Ken,” I choke out. Maybe I can fix this. “I…I really value this company, and I’d prefer to stay…”
“You’re not getting a partnership, Mullen.” His eyes flick to the screen of his computer, as if he’s already tired of this conversation. “If you’d like to leave sooner than two weeks, be my guest.”
I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. What would I say anyway? Ken has already made up his mind. And I’d like to think I have too much dignity to ask for my job back five seconds after quitting.
“I’ll stay for the two weeks,” I murmur.
Ken nods, no longer looking at me at all. This conversation is over.
My head is spinning as I stumble out of Ken’s office. What just happened in there? Did I really just quit my job? How am I going to pay for my kids to go to college? What are we going to do about our mortgage? Our health insurance?
Oh Christ, what am I going to tell Debbie? She’s going to be furious.
12
DEBBIE
I’m running a few minutes late for my book club.
I decided to dash home to shower and change clothes, and it all took just a little bit longer than I expected. On top of that, Harley is meeting me at my house, because she felt uncomfortable showing up alone at a book club where she didn’t know anyone. So when I get out of my house, a tray of sandwiches balanced in one hand and a paperback copy of Velvet Moon in my other hand, I find Harley leaning against her blue Ford.
“Can I help you carry anything?” Harley regards my tinfoil-wrapped tray. “It looks like you’re doing a balancing act.”
I smile gratefully, handing her my book. “Here, take this.”
Harley takes the paperback so I’m able to hold the tray with both hands, significantly decreasing the chances that it will fly out of them, landing face down on the sidewalk. We’re already running late, so I don’t want to dawdle. I start in the direction of Rochelle’s house, but Harley—frustratingly—is lagging behind.
“Gosh, Debbie,” she says, “your house is gorgeous.”
“Thank you.”
It’s a compliment I don’t hear very often. My house is nice enough—another old house that’s been renovated on the inside so that we have electricity and running water. The outside is sorely in need of a paint job, but we’ve been putting it off until Cooper gets that promotion. The front cement steps always crumble during the winter snowstorms, and Cooper has to repair them every summer. Eventually, I’d love to hire someone to fix them in a way that they won’t need to be redone every year.
Compared to some of the other houses in Hingham, it’s particularly modest. A lot of the houses here are over the top. It’s a wealthy town, and the reason we chose to live here—even though it’s a bit out of our price range—was because of the excellent public schools. Being in a good school district was a top priority when we were buying.
She looks around appreciatively. “A house must’ve cost a fortune in a neighborhood like this.”
“It did,” I admit. “More than we can afford, honestly.”
“You should see the dump where I live.” She sighs. “Titan pays crap. It must be nice having a man to take care of you.”
I don’t comment on that. I had never wanted to be in a position where I had to rely on a man to support me. That’s why I worked so hard in school and went to a top college. But she’s exactly right—Cooper is the breadwinner in our family. Unfortunately, Cooper’s income is nothing to brag about. Money has always been tight in our family, although I strongly suspect that will change in the very near future.
“Anyway, we better get going,” I say. “Rochelle hates it when people are late.”
That’s an understatement. I can one hundred percent guarantee there will be a comment from Rochelle on our arrival time when we show up at her door.
We cross the street and walk down the block to Rochelle’s house. If Harley thought mine was impressive, Rochelle’s must look like a castle. I don’t think I’ve ever been over to her house without her feeling the need to point out that she has twice as many bedrooms and bathrooms as I have. You wouldn’t think she could work it into the conversation so easily, but somehow she manages. Every time.
“Whoa,” Harley comments when we make our way up the walkway to Rochelle’s front door. “Now this chick is really rich.”
“She sure is.”
Rochelle’s husband is some sort of soulless corporate lawyer. Obviously, she doesn’t need to work. Not even as a lowly advice columnist. She spends her days doing charity and PTA work. I suppose that’s admirable in theory, but in practice, it’s horrible to be bossed around by Rochelle during a school bake sale.
No, Rochelle and her friends are not my favorite people in the world. But I love to read, and I’ve been desperate to discuss the books I’ve read with other real-life adults. So when Rochelle extended the invitation to join her book club, I jumped at the chance.
And every month, I consider quitting.
Rochelle opens the front door for us, wearing a sleek pantsuit that’s nicer than anything I have in my closet. Certainly nicer than my bloodstained dress, which I was smart enough to change out of. Her black hair is so shiny that I can almost see my reflection in it.
“Debbie.” She beams at me, and then we do the hug and cheek-touching thing. “So good of you to come.”
“This must be…Harlow?”
“Harley,” Harley corrects her with a wry smile.
Rochelle raises an eyebrow at me, probably a reaction to Harley’s pink hair. “And I love your dress, Debbie.” Her gaze rakes over the yellow dress I put on to replace the bloody one. “It makes you look older.” When she notices the look on my face, she quickly adds, “But in a good way.” While I’m trying to work out in my brain how telling a middle-aged woman she looks older could ever be construed as a compliment (spoiler: it can’t), her eyes fall on the tray in my hands. “Oh, and you brought sandwiches! How cute.”
